


Royal Protocol (Scandal Westeros - Episode Two)

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Scandal: Westeros [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Incest, Modern Westeros, Politics, Scandal-Westeros, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: When Sarella Sand receives a call from the Royal Palace at Dragonstone, it's all hands on deck at Sphinx Consultants as the team tries to prevent a tawdry video of Prince Viserys Targaryen from hitting the press. But the co-star of the video, celebrity socialite Taena Merryweather, wants nothing more than to go viral with a member of the royal family and might stand in the way.Meanwhile, Brienne Tarth is still adjusting to her new place on the team of fixers. After getting her hands dirty with a distasteful hotel incident, she begins to question if she can be a "Warrior in a Suit."And after a long day full of revelations and secrets, Sarella throws caution to the wind.
Series: Scandal: Westeros [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623448
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	Royal Protocol (Scandal Westeros - Episode Two)

**Author's Note:**

> In this episode of Scandal: Westeros, we meet the royal family. (I included some backstory in the endnotes about how Westeros transitioned from a monarchy to a republic) I’m generally not a Targaryen writer (no anti here, just prefer writing about Martells), but I did my best to do them justice. 
> 
> Also: please know that I am an “A Feast for Crows” fanatic and will find every reason to include its side characters and/or plot points. 

Rhaegar Targaryen can’t recall the last time his wife was in his bedroom before dawn. When she carried Rhaenys, they learned that pregnancy brought out something possessive and primal in them, and she’d occasionally show up outside his rooms in the middle of the night; needy, glowing, and swollen like an ancient fertility goddess. After Aegon’s birth, however, sex between Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia was sporadic and cathartic. Like colleagues who found each other out of stress and proximity after long workdays. 

So it is strange to see her before sunrise. 

She’s still a striking woman, retaining her Dornish tan despite the thirty-plus years she’s lived on cold and dreary Dragonstone. Her sleek black hair streaked with gray at the temples, framing a face that grows more elegant with age. _She’ll wear the crown well when the time comes_ , he thinks. Their match was another example of his Queen Mother’s foresight.

Taking in her conservative mustard yellow pajamas, he wonders if his wife slept alone tonight. Or if she changed between leaving her lover and coming to his room. He's envious if it's the latter. He remembers a time when he had his own passionate respite from their royal duties…

He cuts off the thought before it can fester. No use turning down that old, well-treaded path.

She passes him a cup of coffee, black with one cube of sugar, and elegantly arranges herself on the bench in front of his bed without uttering a word. The smell of Braavosi dark roast filling his nostrils makes him grateful for his marriage’s practical brand of intimacy.

“Bad news, then?” he asks after his first sip.

“It’s your brother.” Her chilly tone conveys the words that her lips do not: _that fucking moron._

Viserys. Of course. The man got into more trouble between midnight and sunrise than most people found in a lifetime. “Has he wrecked a car? Gotten into another fight in some Tyroshi night club?” 

Elia sighs. “Worse, I’m afraid. I wanted to talk to you before I called Oberyn’s daughter. The situation requires outside assistance.” 

The Prince pinches the bridge of his nose. “A fixer? This should be rich.”

Staring up at him, she rolls her soft, dark eyes. “There may or may not be a sex tape.” 

* * *

Sarella Sand works from home that morning. 

She wakes before dawn, laces up sneakers, and goes for a run along the Honeywine; her feet taking control of her body and leading her down the path lined with old guildhalls, past the condos and apartments that served as off-campus housing for the Citadel’s graduate students, and down the arching stone bridges that lead to the campus. 

She started running her freshman year at The Citadel. It had always been too humid in the Summer Isles and too dry in Dorne to pick up the habit. That first day, when she stepped out of Peremore Hall as dawn cracked over the Honeywine, Oldtown’s clean morning mist greeted her lungs like an old friend and they’ve been on happy terms ever since. 

Instead of her regular 5k that ends on the south side of campus, Sarella finds herself running further, all the way to the campus gates that marked the end of her morning runs in college. “Long time, no see,” she says to the twin sphinx statues that flank the entrance before sitting at the base of the female sphinx and stretching her long legs. Just as she did in her college days, Sarella watches the sun rise over the river’s twinkling waves and prepares for the day ahead. It was going to be a doozy.

Back home, after a long, steamy, eucalyptus-scented shower, she wraps her body in a silk robe and fires up the coffee maker. In the background, a Varya Snyder gossip report about the latest antics of the celebrity socialite Taena Merryweather plays on the television. Once she’s settled on her couch with coffee and her laptop, she checks the time. 7:58 AM. _Well_ , she thinks. _Let’s get this over with_. And turns to the morning news.

_"Today, in the Capitol at Harrenhal, Deputy Prime Minister Randall Tarly will swear in as the Republic of Westeros’s Interim Prime Minister. In a statement released by the Deputy’s office today, Tarly vowed not to seek re-election after completing the remaining year and a half of disgraced Prime Minister Robert Baratheon’s term. ‘I have no ambition outside of steering our noble Republic to a safe harbor during these tumultuous times,’ Tarly said._

_Following the vote to remove him from office, Robert Baratheon exited the Capitol yesterday with plans to return to the Stormlands, where he is expected to retire from public life. However, the former Prime Minister was unavailable for comment on his future plans._

_We will air live coverage of Randall Tarly’s swearing-in ceremony throughout the day. For now, this is Roslin Frey with your morning news update. Stay tuned for Good Morning with Sansa Stark.”_

Petite Roslin Frey, with her delicate nose, innocent brown eyes, and long, extension-assisted brunette tresses is the kind of pretty that average women find warm and relatable. It was one of the reasons pairing her with Councilman Robb Stark worked. Female voters could look at Roslin next to the charismatic, ruggedly handsome Northman and see themselves. The split screenshot with Sansa Stark, an obvious knockout who wants you to know she’s a knockout, makes the former’s girl-next-door vibe ever more apparent. 

Of course, this is the perfect segway, Sarella thinks, knowing exactly what comes next. She had to give it to Catelyn Tully-Stark: the woman knew how to stage a spectacle. On-screen, her eldest daughter and doppelganger bubbles like a real housewife about to deliver a juicy piece of gossip.

_“I can’t let you go without extending my sincerest congratulations. Soon, I’ll have the pleasure of calling Roslin not just a colleague, but a good-sister, since she accepted my older brother’s marriage proposal over the weekend.”_

Just as Sarella knew they would, Roslin’s rose-tinted cheeks burn cherry red while accepting well wishes. And suddenly, all the things Sarella told herself about this moment cease to matter. 

Not that she’d put Roslin’s name on a list of pairings that would be good for Robb’s image.

Not that he’d called her the week before he proposed to remind her the engagement was a mummer’s farce; another piece of political theater. 

Not that she knew could pick up the phone right now and be under that man in a White Harbor hotel room before sunset. 

Watching the woman humbly flash the tasteful-but-don’t-forget-I’m-marrying-rich two karat-diamond on national television makes Sarella want to empty her stomach’s contents on the plush white carpet beneath her feet. 

At least she doesn’t cry. So she has that going for her. 

Her father would scoff. Oberyn Martell believed in taking pleasure where you found it. “Have the affair or don’t,” he’d say. “But do not wallow.” Her mother? Wouldn’t entertain the conversation. Jolona Qo likes to pretend procreating with a Dornish prince was a blip on her journey from an attorney in the Summer Isles’ Navy to one of the Chief Judges on the country's High Court. 

Sarella considers this as she cloaks herself in wide-legged gray pants and a baby blue chiffon blouse; applies a hint of concealer under her eyes and pats the area with a blender; and combs out glossy black hair, pressed within an inch of its life. Just that quickly, she is transformed from the woman in a robe on her couch, awaiting tears that never fell to the force of nature her overachieving parents can be proud of. 

Blotting nude-painted lips, she picks up her ringing phone without checking the number. “This is Sarella.” 

A prim voice replies: “Please hold for a call from the Royal Palace at Dragonstone.” 

* * *

Brienne Tarth could have gone the rest of her life without seeing Pycelle Hill’s naked ass. 

The host of the conservative TV talk show, _Capitol Conversations with Pycelle Hill_ , was apparently a long-standing client of Sphinx Consultants. A pillar of the Republic’s news community and Tywin Lannister’s media mouthpiece, the man had a squeaky clean reputation. 

A reputation, Brienne learned, that was carefully protected by Sarella Sand and her team of consultants. Consultants that would report to an Oldtown hotel room where the aging TV personality’s back went out...

...while entertaining the company of a sex worker. 

_Had researching and drafting policy proposals for Renly Baratheon really been so bad?_ she wonders when confronted with Pycelle’s pale, wrinkled, flabby flesh sprawled on the bed like a starfish with a pair of smooth, petite legs and scarlet-painted toes wiggling at his sides. 

“Everybody okay?” Nymeria Sand calls out. When both parties groan in the affirmative, she drops her red Celine bag and sizes up the room. “Sam, Brienne; you’re going to move Mr. Hill’s body. _Keep him in position_. But lift him off of the bed while—what’s your name, sweetling?” 

A muffled voice, no doubt trapped under the folds of Pycelle’s sagging skin, replies with a name no one can make out. 

“Right,” Nym nods. “While I help this young woman get herself together.” 

Samwell Tarly, Brienne’s klutzy former classmate at the Military Academy at Storm’s End, springs into action, looking up with gentle eyes when she doesn’t join him. “Brienne?” he beckons. 

She shakes her head. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” She takes Pycelle’s arms while Sam positions himself at the old man’s feet. “On three. One, two…” 

Pycelle moans like a creaking floorboard when they lift him. _Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down..._ The man’s age-spotted ass, with its limp, inward-folding cheeks, would haunt her nightmares for years to come. She doesn’t need to see whatever’s between his legs.

Jocelyn—the young woman’s name is Jocelyn—rolls over and curls her small body off the bed. Brienne thinks she can’t be older than 21. Maybe 23. How disgusting. 

The next twenty minutes fly. She and Sam wipe the room of any trace of Jocelyn’s presence while Nymeria helps the girl gather her things, speaking in a surprisingly gentle tone for a woman who normally spits out words a mile a minute.

“Sam,” Nym says. “Take Jocelyn to the coffee shop in the lobby. Buy two coffees and wait for her Uber to arrive.” Picking up a cell phone from the floor, she taps furiously at the screen. “Mr. Hill, it looks like you paid $3,000 for Jocelyn’s services last night? Now, you’re paying $6,000.” 

Pycelle struggles against his uncooperative body. “But—you can’t—” 

Nym slides the phone just within his reach on the nightstand. “In five minutes, you’ll dial 9-1-1. Tell them when you woke up this morning, you couldn’t move.” She flings her bag over her wrist with dramatic flair and turns to Brienne. “Let’s go, Newbie.” 

Old Brienne, who carried Renly Baratheon’s water without question, would have stayed silent in the elevator on the way down. She would have swallowed all of her doubts, reminded herself that working with Sarella Sand is the opportunity of a lifetime, and ate whatever shit the job required. 

She didn’t take this job to be the Old Brienne.

“Is _this_ what Warriors in Suits do?” she asks. “Maintain the reputations of old perverts?” 

Nym’s attention is on the inside of her bag, where her phone started to ring in the middle of Brienne’s sentence. “Sometimes.” She holds up the phone to read the screen. “But we also make sure that 22-year-old girls just trying to do their jobs aren’t shit on in the process. Hey, Sis,” she says into the phone. "Yeah, it’s handled. We’re on the way back now. Oh? Got it. We’ll be there in 15.” 

“What’s going on?” Brienne asks when Nymeria slips the phone back in her purse. 

“Sounds like we’re taking a job for the Palace.” 

* * *

Despite being of an age with Princess Rhaenys, Sarella can count on one hand the times she’s seen her cousin in person. 

The Sovereign Principality of Dorne embraces its royal bastards in practice if not name, but the Targaryen monarchy does nothing of the sort; so Sarella and her sisters were not invited to official royal events. Not their cousins’ christenings at the Sept of Baelor. Nor Rhaenys’ wedding to the pale-haired, purple-eyed Celtigar lord who would hopefully contribute Valyrian features to her heirs. 

Nonetheless, Rhaenys greets Sarella and Nymeria warmly when they arrive at Dragonstone. Watching her sister and cousin embrace, Sarella notes their striking resemblance. Both women are tall and willowy, their height inherited from their respective fathers, with olive-toned skin and thick black hair. Standing together, they look like the devil and angel that would sit on a Dornishwoman’s shoulders when she’s making a difficult decision.

“It’s lovely to see you two,” the Princess says, voice full of practiced enthusiasm. “I’m so sorry Obara couldn’t join us.” 

“My sister’s on a special assignment today, but she sends her best.” Obara couldn’t be bothered to keep her boots off of Sarella’s conference table. A palace visit was out of the question. 

"I trust you found your travel accommodations comfortable?" Rhaenys asks, referring to the private jet and chauffeured sedan that spirited them from Oldtown to Dragonstone in a matter of hours.

Nymeria answers for them. "Yes. The staff was delightfully hospitable.”

"Good," their cousin nods. "It was imperative that we get you here as quickly and discreetly as possible. I've had lunch prepared for us, but my parents want to say 'hello' before we catch up."

Walking the gilded halls of Dragonstone, they pass portraits of past iterations of the royal family, covering centuries of artistic stylings from the crude early Medieval period to the modern era of photography. Playing the hostess, Rhaenys occasionally mentions historical tidbits about the portraits’ subjects, stopping at a dark-haired, purple-eyed woman labeled “Lady Rhaenys Velaryon: _The Queen Who Never Was._ ” 

“I’m named after her,” the Princess explains. “She was the firstborn of an heir to the throne before the Dragons’ Wars. If they’d just named her his successor, they could have avoided the entire conflict, but… Well, you know the history. When I came out a dark-haired girl, Father named me Rhaenys to honor the validity of her claim. _The Queen Who Will Be._ ” 

It sounds sweet. And completely in line with the media narratives on Prince Rhaegar. The crown's golden boy, avid historian, and doting father. But it's hard to believe personal legends when you craft them for a living. "How's your brother? We haven't heard much about him since he left for Sothoros."

“He’s well,” Rhaenys pauses. “Though, anxious to return home. He doesn’t enjoy his diplomatic trips as much as our Aunt Daenerys does.” 

The trio crosses into a mahogany-floored parlor with red-cushioned Victorian-style chairs surrounding an elegant spread of tea, honeyed biscuits, and various fruits. Seated, as if posing for a lifestyle magazine cover, are Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia. 

The Prince had been ethereal in his youth; with porcelain features that looked like they would crack under too much pressure. Now in his early 50s, his face is fuller and harder, with lines in the corners of his indigo eyes and around his graying goatee that give him the distinguished appeal of an aging movie star. The type who starred in women’s fantasies of being bent over a hard surface by an assertive older gentleman. 

So the legend isn’t _all_ bullshit. Just sitting, the Prince has enough “it” to make Sarella feel like her blushing schoolmates that swooned over Oberyn back in the day. 

Next to Rhaegar, her aunt sits with her knees pressed together and ankles crossed; hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck with simple rubies adorning her ears and thick lashes fluttering over warm, dark eyes. “Girls,” she says with just a hint of her old Dornish drawl. “So good to see you.” They’re both in long coats—his, black, hers, a deep maroon—indicating that they’re leaving shortly. _That’s right_ , Sarella realizes. They’re accompanying the Queen to Randall Tarly’s swearing-in. 

Following royal protocol, Sarella and Nym bow their heads. “Your Highnesses,” they say in unison. 

Standing, Prince Rhaegar waves a hand. “Please, none of that. We’re family.” He motions to Rhaenys, who ghosts a hand over her abdomen while taking her father’s seat. “Unfortunately, we can’t stay long.” 

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Elia leans forward. “I wish we could spend more time on pleasantries, but there’s…” she clears her throat, “a matter we need handled as efficiently and quietly as possible. I imagine you’ve both heard of Taena Merryweather?” 

Nymeria, the team’s rabid consumer of Varya Snyder’s _Daily Whisper_ blog, speaks up first. “The real estate heiress turned socialite?”

A familiar weariness falls over Rhaegar’s features. Where has she seen that before? “My brother Viserys had an _encounter_ with the young woman at a nightclub in Driftmark last night. We have reason to believe she may be in possession of a… recording."

“Given the sensitive nature of such a video, you understand...” Elia starts.

 _That the Crown doesn’t want the Prince’s royal dick plastered all over the gossip blogs._ “Of course,” Sarella says. “Is Prince Viserys available? I would like to ask him some questions.” 

“He had other obligations this morning,” Rhaegar replies. “We hope that communicating the gravity of this situation with Ms. Merryweather will be sufficient.”

The flash of steel in his eyes when he says “gravity” tells Sarella he wants the footage by any means necessary and won’t entertain any more questions. _Duly noted._

“Pardon me,” a smooth baritone interrupts from the parlor’s entryway. Its owner—a tall, square-shouldered man with dark crew cut hair and a five o’clock shadow—dons the black suit and earpiece of the Royal Guard. “Your Highnesses? The car is ready.” 

“Thank you, Arthur.” Elia stands, drawing the guard’s dark-eyed gaze. “We’ll be right there.” 

Buttoning his coat, Rhaegar moves toward his wife. “Thank you again for your expediency, Sarella. I know these things aren’t always… simple, but we’d like this wrapped up as soon as possible.” 

The man wants a guarantee. Sarella feels it in her bones. But she doesn’t make promises; not even to family members or handsome princes who stare at her with laser eyes. “Understood, Your Highness.”

* * *

_"The Republic of Westeros officially has a new Prime Minister. Randall Tarly, the former deputy to Robert Baratheon, was sworn into office this afternoon at the Capitol. Among the Westerosi dignitaries in attendance were Queen Rhaella, Prince Rhaegar, and Princess Elia; Attorney General Stannis Baratheon, Defense Minister Barristan Selmy and Finance Minister Mace Tyrell. Westerosi Ambassador to the World Council, Lyanna Stark was also in attendance, amid rumors that Tarly will appoint her as his Foreign Affairs Minister following the retirement of current Minister Hoster Tully.”_

Five hours, two takeout orders, and six pots of coffee after Sarella and Nym left the office, the conference room table at Sphinx Consultants is covered with files and photos of silver-haired, purple-eyed royals. 

Queen Rhaella, Westeros’s “Good Queen” who ushered the monarchy into modernity by donating King’s Landing to the Republic and developing the Flea Bottom Restoration Initiative with former PM Olenna Tyrell. 

Heir to the throne, Prince Rhaegar, with his picture-perfect Dornish princess wife and two kids, supporting female empowerment initiatives and raising his heir, Princess Rhaenys, as a public servant more than a “royal.” 

The spoiled Prince Viserys, partying and whoring his way through the Narrow Sea’s party circuit and barely showing up for royal events. 

And Princess Daenerys, the family’s firebrand, redefining her royal role with staunch advocacy instead of polite hand-waving and photo-taking diplomacy. 

The team sets wagers on which Targaryen will need their services. 

"It has to be Rhaegar," Jon says, turning away from television footage of his mother greeting the Prince and Princess. "I don't buy the perfect prince deal. He's hiding something."

Obara puts her money on the Queen. "It's finally about to come out that she murdered Prince Aerys. Everybody knows he was a cunt."

Brienne studies the board and zeros in on Princess Rhaenys. “She seems robotic at times. Like every word out of her mouth is scripted. I bet she’s having a nervous breakdown.” 

Placing his cash in an envelope before passing it around, Jon looks at the photo of Prince Aegon. “What about him? As much time as he spends out of the country, he could have bodies buried from Volantis to Pentos.”

“His own family barely notices him,” Obara riffs. One would forget that she's speaking of her cousin. “Why do you think they’re always shipping him to Bumfuck Asshai?” 

Sam adds his money and seals the envelope. “C’mon guys. It’s obviously Viserys. He can’t keep his cock in his pants.” 

He happily collects his winnings when Sarella and Nym return to the office. And it dawns on Brienne that Samwell Tarly was not only in the office instead of at the Capitol for his father’s swearing-in, but seemed to intentionally avoid looking at the TV the entire time.

* * *

The problem with celebrity socialites, Sarella realizes as she stares at the board in her conference room, is that they’re shameless. If you’ll leak a film of yourself having sex, you think you can turn any controversy into a viral opportunity. 

As an opening salve, they sent Jon and Obara to talk to Taena Merryweather, hoping their presence and thinly-veiled threats of royal repercussions would frighten her. She all but laughed in their faces. 

Of course. Why would she do anything else?

The daughter of real estate tycoon Orton Merryweather and a former Myrrish pageant queen spent her young adulthood flipping privilege into access into attention into more privilege, starting with regular features on the Rich Kids of Westeros Instagram account. From there, she elbowed into the Narrow Sea’s social scene, a group of noble bastards and other rich ne’er do-wells who party hop around Driftmark, the Step Stones, Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, where she elevated her dating game. First, it was the rapper Jalabhar Xho; then the Tyroshi footballer Daario Neharis. But it was her relationship with Aurane Waters, the bad boy socialite of Driftmark, that put her in front of Viserys Targaryen. 

“And we’re back to the drawing board,” Sarella whispers at the wall. 

Brienne enters the conference room with two cups of coffee. After a ten hour-day that stalled when Jon and Obara returned empty-handed, she sent most of the staff home. Only Sam, who prefers his Internet cave in the basement to actual society, and Brienne stick around. 

“I’ve seen enough in the last twenty-four hours,” the tall, soft-voiced woman says. “To know I’m terribly naive. But I can’t fathom releasing a tape like that knowing my father would hear about it."

Remembering that Brienne worked on the Pycelle rescue mission that morning, she chuckles into her mug. “Seeing Pycelle Hill’s ass would be enough for me, too." She sips her coffee. "And Selwyn’s the kind of father you don’t want to disappoint.” The kind of father who sees his daughter wasting potential on a childhood crush and calls in a favor to point her in the right direction. 

Meanwhile, Oberyn wouldn’t care if _she_ had a sex tape; he’d be more disappointed that she didn’t murder everyone involved to prevent the leak. 

Thinking of fathers, her eyes settle on a photo of Orton Merryweather, posing with his arms folded in front of one of his infamous commercial towers. “Did we run background on Orton?” 

Brienne fishes through a stack of papers and retrieves a manilla file folder. “Criminal, legal, and personal. He has a couple of divorces and sexual harassment NDAs. Nothing cataclysmic."

“What about his finances?” 

"I don't think we—"

Sarella presses the intercom to the basement. “Sam. Get me Orton Merryweather’s financial records from the last thirty years. Every tax return, contract, real estate deal, investment. I want a full forensic report.” 

“Sure thing," Sam says on the other end. “Am I looking for anything in particular?” 

“Yeah…” she stares at the photo of a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the Orton Tower in Myr. “See if anything flags with the Myrrish mob.” 

* * *

“Your closet is a fuckin’ labyrinth,” Jon says when he arrives at the office the following morning with a change of clothes for her. “I brought a black dress, black shoes. Next time you spend the night here, send Nym to fetch your outfits.” 

Unzipping the garment bag on her desk, Sarella inspects its contents. She’ll look like she’s attending a funeral, but that might be useful. “You live closer. Nym’s on the other side of the river. Please tell me you remembered underwear.” 

“Scrubbing the image of your panty drawer from my memory as we speak.” 

“Good. Your mother will kill you if it gets out that her son is a panty-sniffing pervert right before she’s announced as the new Foreign Affairs Minister. Is she excited?” 

He shrugs. “She’s been preparing for it as long as I’ve been alive.” That wasn’t an exaggeration. Ambassador Lyanna Stark was known worldwide for an iconic photo of her seated at a World Council meeting with baby Jon swaddled against her chest. “Would have taken the job years ago if Baratheon wasn’t such a creep.”

“Well. If she can raise a rugged Northern boy that blushes at the sight of women’s lingerie, negotiating international peace deals should be a breeze.” 

“Just… don’t tell Robb I picked out your underwear today, okay? Aunt Cat would frown on me pummeling him at his engagement dinner next week because he couldn’t contain his rage.” 

“Who does or doesn't see my panties is none of your cousin's busin—”

His steely, gray-eyed stare says _Yeah, right_. “What time does today’s party start?” 

“Taena will be here in two hours,” Sarella gathers her things to head to the shower. “There’s a steak, egg, and cheese bagel on your desk for you. With a black coffee; one cube of sugar.” 

“One day, bribing me with food and booze won’t cut it, Sand.” 

Walking out of her office, she yells over her shoulder. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, Snow.” 

* * *

After the incident in Pycelle’s hotel room yesterday, Brienne doesn’t want to judge Taena Merryweather when she arrives at Sphinx Consultants. Because she _had_ misjudged Jocelyn, who—as Nym scolded her—was just a girl doing her job, massively inconvenienced by an aging creep of a customer.

So Brienne does her best to remain objective when the socialite struts in, her hourglass figure evident even in heather gray sweats, sleek black hair trimmed in a blunt, chin-framing bob, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag that could double as carry-on luggage.

She sits at the end of the conference table closest to the door, oversized sunglasses still on, tapping the screen of her iPhone as if no one else is in the room. 

Obara approaches her first, palm out. “Gonna need that phone, sweetheart.” 

Scoffing, Taena peers at Obara over the rims of her shades. “Excuse me? I told you _yesterday_ when you came to my house that I don’t have to—”

“You’re going to give me that phone.” A cold smile, more threatening than Obara’s standard scowl, spreads across her face. “Or I’ll snatch it out of your hand and smash it to pieces.” 

Sarella’s clicking stilettos precede her entrance to the conference room. “I’m sorry, Ms. Merryweather, but this office is a Twitter/Instagram-free zone. You’ll get your phone back as soon as we’re finished.” 

“Wait. You’re that fixer, right?” Taena raises a sculpted brow and tilts her head. “Did Viserys hire you to make me go away? These royals… Calling the help because they’re too good to clean up their own messes. Let me assure you, there is _nothing_ you can blackmail me with that I won’t survive.”

Sarella pulls out the empty chair next to Taena and sits down. “We figured you’d say that. After doing our research, we _did_ find that you have a fiercely loyal fanbase. #Taeniacs, I believe they’re called?” 

Taena nods. “And I can’t _wait_ to watch them drag you from here to the Narrow Sea for trying to silence me to protect the Prince’s royal privilege.”

Scanning the table, Brienne notices different versions of the same incredulous expression. _This woman cannot be serious._

“Right,” Sarella mutters. “Because there’s no controversy you can’t flip into another—I don’t know—lip gloss or athleisure sponsorship. But leaking that footage is a bad idea. Maybe you _are_ invincible, Taena, but,” she slides a folder across the table. “Your father most certainly is not.”

The socialite flips it open and frowns. “I’m confused. What does this have to do with me?” 

Brienne knows what’s in the folder. She helped review its contents until Sarella sent her home at 3:00 AM. But at the time, she didn’t understand why they would bring Taena to heel. 

Then Sarella starts speaking.

“Allow me to explain. The time your father claims he spent in Myr courting your mother twenty-six years ago? Was also spent making _very_ sketchy friends who invested _large_ sums of money in his business. Money that he brought to Westeros and used to develop all those high rise condos and commercial buildings that financed the lifestyle to which you and your mother have become accustomed. 

“He used those _same_ profits to lobby politicians. Who wrote tax laws and trade policies that, if you look hard enough, appear _very_ favorable to his old friends in Myr. This might not mean much to you, Taena, but you know who it means a _lot_ to? Attorney General Stannis Baratheon; who just burned his own brother at the stake for abuse of power so he’d _happily_ mount Orton Merryweather’s plutocratic head on a _pike_ right next to Robert Baratheon’s. 

“But that’s not even the worst of it. The worst will be the Myrrish oligarchs. They don’t like their secrets aired in depositions and court documents, so they'll remind your father that silence is in his best interest. And do you know how they’ll do that, Taena? Maybe they’ll cut the brake lines on your pretty white Range Rover. Or one night, while you’re dancing on a table in Lys, they’ll slip something in your drink, drag your limp body into a van, and hold you hostage for your father’s good behavior. And because this is a _polite_ conversation, Taena, I will not mention what _those_ types of men do to the spoiled daughters of rich men who owe them favors, but _let me assure you_ , there won’t be a damned thing your _#Taeniacs_ can do to help you then.”

To say you could hear a pin drop in the conference room is cliche, but Brienne doesn’t know how else to describe the silence.

They can’t see Taena’s eyes behind her sunglasses as she processes the threat, but it isn’t necessary. The smirk melted off her matte-stained lips and turned from a confused pout to a tight line. Her highlighted and contoured face, frozen in a mask of shock. 

Was keeping Prince Viserys’s naughty bits off the Internet worth doing this to a harmless—albeit bratty—young woman? 

Sarella settles back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap. “My colleagues Jon and Obara would like to escort you home and confiscate any devices storing footage of Prince Viserys. That won’t be a problem, will it, Ms. Merryweather?” 

She has to give it to her; Taena straightens her back, clears her throat, and holds her head up. Listening to her voice’s even tone, with no trace of its earlier pitchiness, is like watching a stage actress remove her costume. “That won’t be a problem at all.” 

* * *

When Sarella goes looking for Sam in his basement office, she’s unprepared for the scene that unfolds. 

In the hours since the Taena drama died down, Jon and Obara had returned to the office with her cell phone and laptop in hand. After confirming with Dragonstone that the matter was settled, Sarella stepped out for a few hours. It would take that long for a member of the Royal Guard to get to Oldtown and she wanted to pick up something for Sam, knowing the day had been rough on him. No matter how well he hid it. 

So she doesn’t expect to hear loud moans as she descends the stairs to the basement. Nor does she expect to find Nym, Obara, and Jon watching a naked Prince Viserys Targaryen lift and drop a moaning Taena Merryweather on what appears to be a rather sizeable… 

“Seriously?” she scolds.

Usually, that tone would make them snap to attention, but Jon and her sisters remain riveted to the screen where Viserys has now tossed Taena on the bed, flipped her over by her ankles, and wrapped her black hair around his pale hand like a horse rein. 

“He's such a skinny little shit," Obara says. “Never would have guessed...” 

Nym, who actually has a bag of microwave popcorn in her lap, turns her head sideways to follow the action as the Prince guides Taena into another position. "No wonder he can't keep it to himself. Slinging a cock like that is a community service."

"She takes it like a champ, too," Jon adds. "I guess those yoga pants she wears aren’t just for show."

She shouldn't watch. And yet… 

Sarella's eyes stay on the Prince's lithe body as she asks "Where's Sam?"

Obara goes for a handful of Nym's popcorn. "Your new girl took him to the Quill and Tankard."

She'll have to leave the gift she picked up—a pristine first edition of his favorite comic, _Azhor Ahai and the Long Night, Vol. 1—_ on his desk later.

That's Sarella's last thought before watching the grand finale of Viserys dislodging from Taena's quivering body and spending his seed on the small of her back. 

For reasons she won't understand later, she looks at his face instead of down at the action and sees his head thrown back and eyes closed tight, shoulders pumping as he strokes himself to completion with a name on his lips that makes no sound.

"Rhaenys."

_Seven hells._

"Turn it off."

"It's almost over anyway, Sarel—"

"I don't want Viserys Targaryen's money shot playing when the Royal Guard arrives. Turn it off and go upstairs."

Jon, picking up on her changing mood, furrows his brows. "Everything okay, Sarella?"

"Upstairs. Now."

With the room cleared, Sarella presses her palms into the cool surface of Sam's control panel; the possibilities spinning in her head, but she doesn't have time to entertain them. "This is Sarella Sand calling for Princess Rhaenys," she says into her phone after dialing the number that called her the previous morning.

"The Princess is—"

"Tell the Princess her cousin needs to speak with her regarding a sensitive matter." Clicking around Sam's keyboard, she pulls up the Targaryen file and searches "Rhaenys." A series of photos pop up on the screen, but none of what she's looking for. She cradles the phone with her shoulder and types "wedding," opening a folder full of pictures of Rhaenys' wedding to Lord Terrance Celtigar. 

The gangly, silver-haired, purple-eyed Lord Terrance Celtigar.

"Sarella. This is Rhaenys. What's—"

"Is this a secure line?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Rhaenys. Listen to me. I need to speak with you privately before I turn over the items your father asked me to secure. Is this a safe line and are you alone?"

When her cousin places her on hold, she searches "Viserys" and pulls a list of headlines of the Prince's exploits. A bar fight in Tyrosh. An alleged DUI in Lys. Visits to Qarthene drug dens… All since the Royal Family announced Rhaenys' engagement.

"What's going on, Sarella?"

"I need you to be honest with me. Cousin to cousin. No royal bullshit, okay?"

The word "royal" jolts Sarella's memory of Rhaenys placing a protective hand over her abdomen when she sat down during their visit at Dragonstone.

She sinks into the chair behind her as her cousin says a shaky "Alright."

"Do your parents know about you and Viserys?"

"I beg your pardon—"

"In 30 minutes I will hand over your uncle's sex tape where he mumbles your name when he climaxes. Do I need to edit it out or not?"

There's a deep inhale followed by a long pause before she answers. "Edit it, please."

Sarella releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I'll take care of it."

"If… if my family still ruled as it once did. Before we had to answer to… He and I would be married," another pause on the other end. "He's only the way he is because… Gods, why am I even saying this to you?"

"And the baby you're carrying?"

Rhaenys' voice turns to iron. "Will be born of a Targaryen heir and succeed his or her mother on the throne. Listen, I have to go. I… Thank you for your discretion, Cousin. I'll see to it that you're compensated for the extra—"

"Don't worry about it. Think of it as taking care of family."

"Goodnight, Sarella."

"Goodnight, Rhaenys."

Tossing her phone on the control panel, Sarella leans back in Sam's chair, blinks up at the ceiling tiles, and sighs.

Then, she gets to work.

* * *

“She knows about you and Jaime Lannister.” 

After a couple of rounds at the Quill and Tankard, Brienne and Sam are standing outside of the Sphinx Consulting offices. Had she had too many Fearsomely Strong Ciders or had he mentioned knowing about her and Jaime? 

“What?” 

Sam casts his eyes up at the yellow-lit windows of the office. “Your first night on the team, when we got Lannister back from the Bloody Mummers? Sarella picked up on a weird vibe between you two and asked me to look into it. I remembered our first week of basic training at the Military Academy when he was a guest drill sergeant…”

 _Fuck_. 

She plops down on the building’s stone stairs. Why the hell would Sarella need to know about her and Jaime? To use it against her at some later date as she had with Taena Merryweather? 

“That day after you two sparred in class. He—he spent the night at the Nightsong Inn and…” 

Brienne raises a hand. “I was there. I don’t need a run-down.” 

“No one will judge you for it,” he says. “They don’t judge me for being the new Prime Minister’s disowned eldest son. I just… You took me out on a shitty day and let me vent about my shitty dad, so I owed it to you to let you know.” 

“Why don’t you head upstairs without me, Sam? I need a minute.” 

She watches Sam trudge up the stairs and enter the office before taking off on a walk around the block.

Her father will be pissed that she quit working for his former campaign manager. But surely, Renly’s office would take her back. Or she can go back to the Military Academy as an adjunct professor while she figures out her next move. Maybe she can finally get her law degree. Then she could get a job in a Regional Attorney's office, putting bad guys in jail instead of protecting scum and criminals like Pycelle and Orton Merryweather.

She has a running list of potential law schools in her head when she finally walks back into Sphinx Consultants. Entering the foyer, she almost runs into a bull of a man in a black suit. She’s used to being bigger than most people, so she’s surprised to see someone who makes her feel small in comparison. Taking a second look, she notices he wears an earpiece and is carrying a large manilla envelope. This must be the Targaryens' envoy picking up Taena’s devices. 

“My apologies, my lady,” he says in the aristocratic tone of the royal family. He catches a glimpse of the pin on her jacket’s lapel. “Graduate of Storm's End? Me, too. Class of 1989.” 

She performs the customary Storm’s End salute. “Class of 2011. I’m Brienne Tarth.” 

The man locks her offered hand in a strong grip. “Gerold Hightower. Nice to meet you. Do you happen to work here?” 

_Not for long._ “Yes, why?” 

“The young man in there. With the dark hair and slim face. What’s his name?” 

Well, that’s strange. Regardless of how she feels about Sarella at the moment, she knows better than to volunteer information to strangers. “Excuse me, sir, but why do you ask?” 

Gerold shakes his head. “Never mind. He just reminded me of someone I thought I knew. Have a good evening, Brienne.” 

He’s halfway down the hall when she realizes she should have asked for his business card. She’s going to need a job soon. 

She finds Sarella in her office, nursing a glass of red wine and staring out of the window. The neat, slicked-back ponytail she wore earlier is tossed into a haphazard bun and her black stilettos are discarded on the floor by her desk. “Thanks for taking Sam out today,” she says, still looking outside. “With everything going on, I didn’t spend as much time with him as he needed. I appreciate you looking out for him.” 

“Oh,” Brienne feels some of her righteous indignation taper off. “It’s no problem. We were classmates before he left the Military Academy. We learned our first week that we don’t leave men behind.” 

Sarella takes a healthy sip from her glass. “That’s a good motto. How can I help you tonight, Brienne?” 

“We...” Brienne sighs. “I… I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. You gave me a job on the spot and you didn’t have to but, I don’t think I’m… This isn’t for me.” 

This gets Sarella’s attention. She turns away from the window and sits behind her desk, fixing Brienne with a curious stare. “What exactly isn’t for you?” 

She didn’t think this far ahead. Brienne figured Sarella would round on her and throw her out. “This… I… I don’t know what we’re doing here. We take care of assholes like Pycelle, but we make sure his prostitute is well-compensated. Taena Merryweather’s a twat, but we basically threatened to destroy her life so the Crown wouldn’t be embarrassed. And… her father’s a _criminal_. But overlooking that serves our needs so we ignore it and I… You know things about me that I don’t want _anyone_ to know. It’s…” She shakes her head, hoping to clear some of her confusion. “I don’t know if I’m working for the good guys or the bad guys and it bothers me.”

Placing her wine glass on the desk, Sarella nods. “It sounds like you have quite the dilemma, then. I won’t ask you to stay if you don’t want to be here, so…” she motions to the door. “Feel free to use me as a reference any time. And don’t worry about your secrets. They’re covered in the NDA you signed in your new hire paperwork. You don’t discuss anything related to the company, we don’t discuss you.” 

Brienne blinks. “Wait. That’s it?” 

“You’re _quitting_ , Brienne. What did you expect?” When she doesn’t answer, Sarella sits back in her chair and folds her arms. “Oh. You want me to make a speech that subverts your ideas of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ so you feel better about staying? Which is what you really want to do, but you’re so afraid of what that makes you, you’d rather quit. Well, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and I don’t have the energy.” 

Brienne can feel her blood starting to boil. “You make me sound like some sort of craven…” 

“Your words. Not mine.” 

“Well, I’m _sorry_ for having a moral compass that doesn’t understand rolling 70-year-old men off of 22-year-old girls or abetting government corruption to scare the shit out of some vapid selfie queen.” 

Sarella’s eyes narrow. “Fine. You seem determined to have it out, so let’s have it out. The people who walk into this office do not hire us because they are good or bad; they hire us because they’re players. Just like we’re players. And everyone who sits at that conference table—be they client or competition—have signed up for the same game. Taena Merryweather is neither the attention-starved slut you thought she was before you met her or the harmless dimwit you thought she was after. She is the steward of a carefully crafted, multi-million dollar brand who picked a fight with a dragon and got roasted. That ‘poor prostitute’ you ‘rescued’ from Pycelle yesterday is a businesswoman whose client cost her valuable time that we recouped for her. But you can’t see any of that, Brienne, because you’re too busy hating yourself for that time you fucked your drill sergeant in basic training.

“And that's not my problem. So, go. But if you need the blanket of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ to be fulfilled in your work, I recommend becoming an elementary school teacher because you will not find the easy morality you’re looking for at the grown-up table.” 

Brienne wants to speak, but her mouth refuses to move.

“Why don’t you take a day? If you still want to work for me, come back at 8:00 AM the day after tomorrow. If you don’t,” Sarella stands and extends her open palm. “Good luck in your future endeavors.” 

* * *

When Brienne and her stunned, innocent blue eyes leave her office, Sarella vows to finish her bottle of Dornish Red. 

She has to, in order to make this phone call. 

Bare feet up on her desk, she leans back and closes her eyes, summoning the phone number to her memory. Instead, she sees Prince Viserys planting Taena Merryweather on a hotel dresser and making her scream. 

_All the more reason_ …

The phone rings three times before a voice, warm and gravely as a good whiskey, answers “Hello?"

“This is a call from Sphinx Consultants for Councilman Robb Stark. Is he available?” 

“Indeed he is,” the smiling voice on the other end says. “What number is this?” 

She looks at the phone on her desk. “Office phone. Just in case.” 

“Roslin doesn’t go through my phone, Sarella.” 

“If you don’t understand the importance of covering your tracks, you aren't ready to do this.” 

“Do what?” 

She picks up an old article that Sam brought to her office earlier _._ “I’m looking at this _Raven_ article from when your Aunt Lyanna was in college. She was in a Mock World Council competition at Harrenhal and her team kicked everyone’s ass. It has a photo of her team accepting the winner’s medal from Prince Rhaegar and everything. I’m thinking about having it framed for Jon.” 

Robb is quiet for a moment. “I’m sure he’d like that… Are you okay? Sounds like you’ve been at the Dornish Red.” 

“You are correct, Councilman.” 

“That kind of day, eh? Anything you can talk about?” 

_My married cousin is in love with, and likely pregnant by, her uncle and wants me to hide it from my aunt. Selwyn Tarth's daughter—who I hired because she's full of potential—thinks I'm a diabolical bitch and doesn't want to work for me. Oh. And a Prince's home video is playing on a loop in my head, reminding me I haven't had sex in gods know when, so I'm calling my newly-engaged former... whatever the hell we are._

“Only if we can talk in person. How soon can you get to White Harbor?” 

"Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“I am. I can be on a private plane in an hour.” 

“Sarella,” he growls. And fuck, she loves the sound of it. “If you’re going to change your mind, do it now. Because once we’re alone, I don’t want to hear anything but ‘Yes,’ ‘Right there,’ and ‘Fuck me, Robb.’” 

She pulls the receiver away from her face, crosses her legs to ease the slowly-building ache between them, and bites her lip. “One hour?” 

He doesn't hesitate. But Sarella knew he wouldn't. “See you in two.” 

**Author's Note:**

> How Westeros Went from a Monarchy to a Republic & The Renunciation of King's Landing:
> 
> In the centuries following the Dragons’ Wars, the Targaryen family had seen much of its power diminished. The Westerosi people, exhausted by the civil war between Iron Throne claimants that ravaged the southern half of the country, threw off the chains of monarchical rule and rioted in favor of democracy. 
> 
> Westeros was already halfway there, having established the People’s Council and the High Council to represent the public’s interest to the throne. But the bloody war was the final straw. After years of protests and uprising, the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros became the Republic of Westeros with the Northern nobleman Cregan Stark as its first Prime Minister. 
> 
> The royal family transitioned into ceremonial, diplomatic roles, leaving the ruling of the Republic to its citizen-elected officials; waxing and waning in popularity over the years depending on the economy. In leaner times, people derided the monarchy as out-of-touch and a waste of government funds. It was during lean years that Queen Rhaella ascended to the throne and enacted a series of bold proclamations that many believe saved the Targaryen dynasty. Chief among them was the renunciation of King’s Landing. 
> 
> Following the people’s uprising, the new government broke away from symbols of Targaryen rule and built its new capital at the centrally-located Harrenhal, leaving the royal seat as a dated relic of old power. Later, the young Queen Rhaella, sensing the people’s growing frustration with her family’s position, declared that the royal family would take up permanent residence at their island estate, Dragonstone, and release King’s Landing back to the people of the Republic on the condition that the Red Keep be repurposed as a museum and its surrounding lands, a historical district and public park. 
> 
> Newly elected Prime Minister Olenna Tyrell led the project and passed legislation declaring that revenue generated from King’s Landing tourism would go toward the Flea Bottom Improvement Initiative to develop the community that had always lived in the Red Keep’s shadow. 
> 
> The act would not only give Westeros’s first female Prime Minister a massive political win, but cement the young monarch as “Good Queen Rhaella,” even as royalists criticized her for surrendering tradition to the whims of a flaky public.


End file.
